One year ago, a whole year has already passed. Time has a strange, elastic, variable dimension. One year ago my friend Máire died, after fighting bravely against the demented, crazy cells of cancer. Sometimes we are afraid of words and we don’t feel like calling things by their own name, as if it was a way to exorcize their negative meaning. Like in Harry Potter’s saga, where nobody dares to pronounce the name of  Voldermort, except harry Potter himself, who at the end is the one who can defeat the evil guy. I know that mentioning Harry Potter in this context might sound frivolous and inappropriate, but Máire would have understood what I meant to say and her opinion is the one which matters now. Máire was not afraid of words; she called her cancer ‘cancer’, well aware that using merciful periphrasis would not have changed the reality of things.

Máire was one of the most courageous people I have ever met. Did I already say that? Probably I did, because it’s what I think. When the doctors told her that there was not any further chance to recover, she asked them simply how long she could still have at her disposal and the answer was that it would have been a matter of few weeks. She informed me immediately, with controlled resignation, without any drama, sober and cleverly pragmatic, as she had always been. She told me she had still time to settle all the necessary matters for her family and then she hoped to slip peacefully away when her time would reach the end.

After that conversation, we kept on being in touch several times a day, as always, until she had strength enough to type at least a short message on the keyboard of her tablet or her mobile phone.

She remained always the same with me and we, believe it or not, kept on joking about little things as well.

Once she told me she was afraid, but she added that it was not a constant feeling, but just one which occasionally made surface among the others for a short time.

We have always spoken about all with each other and we did it until it was possible. But this is something very private.

Since her death I have thought of her every day. I speak to her in my mind and often I’m nearly surprised because she doesn’t answer, then I realize in reality she keeps on having a dialogue with me, based on all what we have exchanged during the years of our friendship. When you come to know a friend deeply, you can also imagine–with reasonable chance to be right–what your friend would have thought or said in a determined circumstance.

During these last months I have started re-reading a book which I consider very thought-provoking.

I like reading the books I like again and again. Every time I find a renewed enriching pleasure in that.

My criterion to determinate if a book is at my taste or not is asking myself if I feel like reading it again.

In this specific case it’s a book I can read several times.

It’s not a fiction book; it’s something between autobiography and philosophical essay, spiced with a good dose of British humour and a pinch of gentle irony.

Its title is “Nothing to Be Frightened of” by Julian Barnes.

 It’s a book of meditations and considerations about death from the point of view of a very clever, agnostic writer. It has helped me to metabolize Máire’s death in a certain way, even though it will be always hard for me to think that she’s not in my dimension anymore.

I don’t feel comforted at all by absolute certainties which other might teach me. I need to find answers by myself, with my own speculations, which might be totally at random, I know. But like in travelling what is really worthy is not the final destination, but the trip we take to reach it, also in intellectual speculations I do think it’s more important the mental action of search rather than the sure answer one might find.

I took the average photos I’m posting here only a few hours ago, because they are in a way a source of inspiration to put a veneer of order in my confused thoughts.

I have never liked the habit to commemorate a dead by posting photos of flowers either withered or not, particularly if the flowers come from a personal stock of photos and have nothing to do directly with the person one is supposed to commemorate.

If by chance someone is reading these lines in this hidden corner of the virtual space, this person might reproach my lack of consistence, since on the background; here in these photos a withered rose is quite visible. But this is a flower with a meaning, not just a stereotyped symbol of death, used as decoration for a virtual card.

The one who gave me this withered rose knows what I mean.

So Máire left one year ago and she left me with all the spiritual questions which I cannot discuss with her anymore.

I don’t consider dull thinking over about death. It’s part of life, it’s part of us. Maybe it’s too oversimplified, but I’m inclined to think that when we die we go exactly where we were before being conceived, nowhere or maybe everywhere.

Máire once told me that occasionally she was afraid. I think we are afraid of what we don’t know, like children who are afraid of darkness, because they cannot see what there is around them and they can imagine that monsters can pop out from dark. Their mother, to reassure them, switches on the light and shows them that there is nothing unfamiliar in their room and even under the bed there are only their harmless slippers and nothing else.

The problem is that there is not and switch which can allow us to see clearly in certain mysteries of our ephemeral existence, but, on the other hands we are also supposed to be adults, which is a heavy responsibility, with positive sides.

Máire and I used to speak often of many topics like that, which we mixed merrily with much lighter subjects in a kind of messy, but lively exchange of thoughts.

Now I must keep on doing that without her.

I have all my memories and the meaningful items which she offered me and they can help me to never break the dialogue with her.

A polished stone she picked up one day in one of her walks along the sea. She thought I might like it and of course she was right. A shining polished stone, as green as her Ireland. It’s her on my desk. A concrete fragment of our never-ending friendship.

Tá sé deas a bheith do chara, Máire!

The secret is getting up early in order to to meet the sun when it’s still shy and the terrible Mrs Summer is still sleeping.

I prefer whispering in the silence, rather than shouting in the noise.

The world is renewed at every sunrise. It’s too late for night owls and too early for common early birds.

It’s a time in brackets. It’s short and private.

I’m whispering also here to an unknown ear, which might be totally inexistent.

I voluntarily make the path to my words more complicated and secluded rather than marking it with the bright lights of social networks.

Probably none will find me here.

Maybe it’s what I want, or maybe I'm ridiculously trying to be selective.

Sunrises are the most bearable moments of summer.

Hamlet would say, with infinite regret, that the rest is noise.

Here she is. She’s arrived. But she’s not welcome.

At 12:51 (my time, of course, but time is such a relative dimension…) it started. It’s the longest day of the years it marks her arrival with great pomp.

At this stage I suppose I should explain who is the person–or the presumed person– I’m speaking of.

It’s Mrs Summer, she has not any first name, of maybe it’s her first name. She’s one of the four seasons. I have always liked imagining seasons like characters.

It’s quite obvious, I realize that, obvious and banal.

Nevertheless here is what I imagine.

Mr Autumn is a handsome country gentleman in his early 50’s or maybe in his late 40’s. You have grasped the principle.

Mr Winter is a man too, he’s a bit older than Mr Autumn, but not as old as you might imagine. He might be more or less 60, tall, and slim, with elegant round glasses lightly framed of gold. He’s an intellectual, but he’s not a highbrow. He’s a genuine intellectual, he owns an incredible number of books, which he keeps not only on shelves, but piled up everywhere in his home. He lives in a slightly austere manor. He likes writing poems.

Miss Spring obviously is a girl, a beautiful, but very vain one. She thinks she has all the rights just because of her great beauty. She’s not unpleasant, but she’s very girlish and not too deep. She’s sentimental and self-conceited.

Bur Mrs Summer is a charming woman in her middle 40’s who cannot accept time passing. She spends hours in beauty parlour and rumours say she visited several plastic surgeons. She speaks a bit too loudly to attract attention, she loves flashy colours and jewels. She thinks nobody realizes that she had a boob job with a good dose of silicone.

 I don’t get on well with her. But she comes back every year.

I have posted a certain number of self-portraits (I refuse to call them 'selfies'; maybe I'll explain why later) on PBase for several years. You are free to believe it or not, but I have always done it with reluctance, even though I have also managed to win this uneasiness adding  a self-ironical or simply funny feature to all of them. It was my way to explain that I was not taking myself seriously.

Actually it's the absolute truth that I have started taking self-portraits because very few people accepted to be photographed by me and I wanted to study the various effects of portraiture, settings, and lights and so on. I was a good model I think, because I did exactly all what my photographer expected from me…being the same person made things easier.

I have not gained any particular talent for portraiture, but I have at least learnt something directly from my experience.

I think it's time to change subject, for this reason I won't post any further self-portrait anymore.

It won't be any dramatic loss….

The matter is that I really dislike the idea to use my own humble image without any purpose and I deeply hope to never give the impression to show off. Also because, frankly speaking, there is not that much to show.

I'm a middle aged common person and I pay more attention to keep my brain in good conditions rather than getting worried about wrinkles.

With the overdose of social networks it seems people have been caught by a kind of frenzy to appear and to show themselves, without wondering if it can really interest anyone.

It's seems that now is extremely fashionable and trendy to take snapshot of oneself which are called 'selfies'. It's a kind of viral habit spread at all social levels.

I remember the archetype of selfie, I have seen in not suspected time. It was in a film by Ridley Scott, called "Thelma and Louise". It was in 1991. The photo of themselves which Thelma and Louise take with a Polaroid camera (no smartphones yet in that lucky age) became iconic even more than the first appearance in the film of a very young Brad Pitt. After that, all selfies are only a pale reiteration.

I won't join the chorus. There are better subjects of photography.

Probably my two or three readers know that I have been posting my photos on a site called PBase for several years.

Actually the only way to find a path to arrive until this half-hidden corner is going through PBase, where I shamelessly put links leading here.

It's a bit unusual that in this age of wide self-promotion I feel rather ill at ease inviting indirectly visitors to this personal space, but this is the way I am and it's also for this reason that I feel relatively out of place in social networks. I'm an old troglodyte pitifully allergic to all new common trends.

Once again I'm roaming about the topic; I lack the blessed gift of concision. I love to write, but I'm aware that I'm too wordy, in written expression at least.

I have been told that readers, especially nowadays, get bored if one is not able to get effectively and quickly to the point. I can already imagine patient readers falling asleep on my prose. It's not gratifying. So I'll make an effort to come to the main topic.

PBase is a wonderful photographic site, a niche place I'd say, maybe also for that even more suitable for me. It's a nice and safe virtual club for amateur photographers with a lot of advantages and very few flaws. Members and visitors can leave comments if they appreciate a photo or an idea and it's surely very encouraging and rewarding for the author.

Since we are all different from each other, with different perceptions, values and tastes, it's logical that we have different attitudes also about the comments we might or might not receive.

 I have the idea–probably I'm wrong– that a certain number of people like showing a huge collection of comments, which might prove they are popular and appreciated. Maybe they indulge in a preference for quantity rather than quality, since often many comments, always valid as sign of appreciation, are just composed by few words.

I have noticed that the majority of comments I received are posted in a private way. Of course it's not that there is anything troubling in them, which could not be showed publicly. They are rather long articulated comments, which looks more like an exchange of thoughts than a simply line of appreciation for the very probably average quality of my photos.

These comments cannot be seen by other visitors, so they are dedicated only to me personally and I have to admit I appreciate them in a special way. I'm grateful to visitors who feel like reacting to what I have "created" or maybe simply written. I don't need to use their comments as a proud display of the attention people give to me. Of course I always answer. What is important, in all human relationship is an unselfish exchange, a dialogue. All the rest is relative.

Today my best female friend is 65. At least she'd be, if she were not dead on the 12th of October 2013.

She didn't leave in an unexpected way. Unfortunately both of us knew her time was limited, but this awareness didn't make her departure less painful for me. We are made of rational and emotional sides and what our rational side accepts as a matter of fact we cannot change, still remains an unfair bad trick of fate for our emotiveness, which is unable to resign.

I have never been able to get on very well with other women, so my friendship with her was even more precious for this peculiarity.

If we had to speak of my relationship with her in few words I'd say we were sincere and we felt free to be ourselves with each other. We created a privileged way of communicating based on mutual trust, mutual tolerance and a lot of humour and self-irony.

Immediately after her death many people thought to make a tribute to her posting on the web various pictures and messages, even though the majority of them knew very little of her as a person.

I didn't do anything publicly.

I knew she would not have liked that at all. We had spoken about that. We spoke of all, simply, without restraint. But I know also that she would have appreciated people's intentions even though she would have preferred it might be shown in a different way. She has always been more generous and tolerant than me about others and we have so often joked about our features on this point. I played the contrarian, the iconoclast, while in reality she was the strong rebel, who could dominate her temper for others' sake.

I miss her in a way words cannot express. I miss her more than I expected to miss her.

I have never thought it's right to idealise people only because they are dead. I think that death doesn't make anyone either better or worse than they were in life.

My friend spoke too much and I teased her terribly for that, then we both laughed together. We never laughed at each other, we laughed together about ourselves.

She was maybe a little too optimistic about life in general, but this feature was perfect to temper my excessive scepticism.

We liked repeating that we were perfectly complementary and joked by saying that if we had merged in only one person the result would have been remarkable. Then I added "Well, but what could happen if this person would take only our flaws instead of qualities?" and she laughed with her shining eyes and said "Then we'd become only one woman, short, catholic, sardonic, grumpy, asocial and definitely too talkative!".

I cherish all the memories I have of her and they are so many that make me feel rich. We have created things together, made projects, shared worries.

Even though we lived in two different countries we communicated every day, even several times a day and we were closer than if we had lived next door.

The last time I saw her in person was on the 14th May 2013, on my doorstep, while she was leaving after a stay at our home. My husband was driving her to the railways station. She had told me, since we never stood on ceremonies that it was not necessary I went there too. While she was getting into the lift she turned her head toward me and waved, smiling.

Five months after that day she died.

Obviously I have already experienced several dear ones' and good acquaintances' death, but her death has struck me in a very particular way. It has made me think over about the frailty and the meaning of our ephemeral life so much and every time I have gotten deeply involved in these speculations I have felt the sudden need to share my thoughts with her, because we liked so much mixing up our reasoning and to find a thread which might lead us somewhere. At that point, as when one wakes up from a dream, I realize once again that she's not there anymore and I won't have any further chance to speak to her.

She loved her children, her husband, her cultural roots, books, photography, white wine, gastronomy, cinema and she loved also me. I feel grateful to destiny for the chance I had to meet her.

Every year on her birthday I invented little funny procedures to offer her the small presents I had chosen for her and her kind husband was my accomplice in this affectionate game, preventing her from barely touching the parcel I had sent before the fatidic date and presenting her the small gifts in the right order. Then she immediately took photos of each of them and sent them to me. It was a personal and deeply rewarding ritual.

This year is different. She's not there anymore.

But I keep her alive in my mind, day after day and on her birthday I can only feel grateful because she was born.

Lá breithe sona, mo chara álainn!

I have the habit to ask myself many questions, but I can rarely find satisfying answers by myself.  I presume I'm not intelligent enough to fully grasp what is a bit too different from my frame of mind.

Just to mention an example, I can't understand why so many people take photos of famous paintings when they visit a museum and why they mostly do it with their mobile phone or small basic cameras.

I can understand, obviously, why so many people feel deeply emotions seeing in reality a masterpiece which they had seen many times before in books of art or in documentary films.

But it's beyond my imagination what pushes them to take bad pictures of it, while it's full of perfect photographic reproductions.

I suppose that all the people who have visited the Louvre Museum in Paris have felt a pang of discomfort finding themselves in front of "Monna Lisa" by Leonardo (which by the way is a painting of reduced dimension, over protected by a thick glass, already a little disappointing for this reason at a first impact), half hidden by a forest of arms holding mobile phones in a frantic ecstasy of clicks.

What for? I'm unable to understand.

Another question will follow this one immediately. Why a few paintings have become so famous and have been transformed in Pop icons, while others, equally marvellous or even more, don't receive the same passionate attention?

In reality " Monna Lisa" was not so terribly famous once. It became more "interesting" for a large audience after its vicissitudes, as the fact that in 1911 it was stolen by an Italian whitewasher, who had kept it hidden under his bed for two years.

Another masterpiece of painting has started "menacing" Monna Lisa's pre-eminence as the most famous picture of the world. It's the one called " Het Meisje met de Parel" ( The Girl with a Pearl Earring) by Johan Vermeer. The picture is splendid and Vermeer was an extraordinary artist, but, let me say, only 20 years ago this painting didn't enjoy the enormous popularity it has nowadays.

The origin of its popular success can be found maybe in a book with the same title, written by  Tracy Chevalier, who mixed up real elements of Vermeer's biography with fiction and imagined who the mysterious model of the picture could be. The novel is enjoyable and I wonder why the following novels by the same author have never reached the same level of quality, but this is another story, of course.

 As it often happens, after the success of the book, someone decided to make a film based on the story. I didn't like the film at all, so I won't spend any further single word on it. But the fame of the picture was even more amplified and I'm afraid that several –a little superficial–people are really persuaded that the fictional character imagine by Chevalier was really the girl of the painting.

So also the unknown Dutch girl has become another Pop icon.

Masterpieces of painting sometimes become celebrities exactly like movie stars, rock singers or sportsmen.

Many people who go to see them in an art museum don't look at them as they are, but as if they were the main characters of a famous soap opera, sitting at a café table. If they could, they would ask for an autograph, or else they just bombard them with clicks taking snap-shots.

Exactly like when there is it doesn't matter what celebrity walking in the street and fans take totally useless shots with the omnipresent mobile phones.

Maybe finally I have found a  partial answer.

Rituals are common in every society. So it means they are a spontaneous answer to humankind's needs and surely play an important role in social texture, it doesn't matter of what cultural background.

  A ritual is any practice or pattern of behaviour regularly performed in a set manner.  Anniversaries, New Year, ceremonies, weddings, holidays. The list is long and we all know that there are codified habits related with each of them.

I suppose it depends on the fact that human beings are sociable animals, so they need to identify themselves with their group, even though they might be conditioned by hierarchic positions. The common ritual celebrations mark their belonging to the group as well.

Nearly all animals have the instinct to live in a group, or in a pack, if you prefer. The ones who prefer loneliness or just a couple life are a minority.
I can think only of the majority of felines, which are solitary, and some kinds of birds.
Practising the rituals of one's own social group is a sort of language, it's somehow reassuring.

Fashion might be considered like a group ritual too, to identify oneself with the member of one's kind. People choose to wear in a similar way to affirm their belonging to a specific group.
The alternative is a kind of nearly unnatural isolation, which can be painful when it's not voluntary, but has its positive sides when it's a consequence of a free choice.

Today it was sunny and bright where I live, quite calm. Unfortunately not too winter-like.

It was a common day, exactly like yesterday.

We went out early this morning and we saw an ermine running along the road in a field. It was so evidently visible, all white in its winter fur against the field, incongruously covered with still green grass. Its fur, made to camouflage it in winter, was totally inadequate for the lack of snow.

Just another common day, exactly like yesterday.

I feel largely gratified by the comforting idea that I have more or less sever regular visitors, who are so kind to come over to give  a look at this erratic journal.

I'm aware that it's a ridiculous percentage on the web, where in every social network one can collect a huge number of presumed "friends" in   few days.

But I'm happy like that.  I like considering this space  a slightly secluded room, with the door only half-open. There is not any street sign to attract attention.

I won't find many "virtual friends" but I'm happy with my seven readers, even though I know very little about them.

I know I should say something about this old year and express some wishes for the new one and all the usual panoply of common places. I should, shouldn't I? But I won't.

I don't mean to be rude, only because I'm not conventional. Actually I cannot stand any form of rudeness and I'm deeply persuaded that good manners and politeness would be a great help to make human relationships better and, as a consequence, to make also this world a better place.

Simply old-fashioned good manners. It's not too difficult after all.  One should try to speak in a moderate tone of voice, be able to understand others, be polite, and avoid all trivial and vulgar habits.

Good manners, mutual respect, a little of elegance in little gestures, which doesn't mean being necessarily a snob.

More time to be what we are and less time to pretend to appear different. Showing off is never elegant, it's gloomy.

But I'm speaking only for myself, an old gentle contrarian, without claiming to be necessarily right.   

Call me mannered, if I love good manners, maybe you are right. But I refuse to drink my coffee in a plastic cup.